


The Experience of This Sweet Life

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M, post-HBP, snaco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years after the war ends, Draco is given a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Experience of This Sweet Life

**1\. inferno**  
_Still desiring, we live without hope._

Draco _hated_ his office.

Miniscule and dark and cold and windowless, tucked away in a drafty, dilapidated corner of the Ministry down a hallway of abandoned storerooms which he was quite certain the great majority of his colleagues would have preferred to remain neglected, the leaking pipes overhead blessed with their very own ghoul utterly impervious to any attempts at removal, it was, as he referred to it, the epitome of Cocytus.

In the past four years, he'd never been able to decide if it were actually Caina, Antenora, or Judecca.

Potter always rolled his eyes at that, snorting at the decidedly Muggle reference to the hell of traitors--after, of course, Draco had finally explained it because Merlin knew the thought of Potter of all people actually getting past the first page of _The Divine Comedy_ was laughable at best. Draco conveniently ignored the fact that he himself would never have picked up the book had it not been for the library at Spinner's End and far too many hours of lonely solitude.

Draco was oddly used to solitude now.

And loneliness.

Potter had brought Draco a small silver plaque on his last birthday—a day that Draco himself had surprisingly forgotten until well after lunch, but then again, it was quite easy to overlook a day that meant nothing once one had lost everything and everyone. Gone were the parties at the Manor celebrating his birth, parties that meant large piles of presents, two-tiered cakes and his parents beside him, hands on his shoulders, wineglasses raised high, showing their heir to the cream of wizarding society.

This year he toasted his birthday night in the Knockturn pub in which Potter had found him, hiding in the shadowed corner like the coward he was. The stench of vomit and piss and cheap firewhisky hung heavy in the air, and Potter had said nothing when he sat down, placed the finely engraved scrap of silver on the sticky table between them with a quiet, "I looked for you at your office."

_Abandon hope all ye who enter here,_ the plaque read, and Draco had bitten back a sharp laugh at the appropriateness of the sentiment, choosing instead to pour another shot of whisky with a hand that only shook slightly.

He was rather certain that the gift had been Granger's idea, at least partially, but he'd accepted it with a silent nod, noting the small, discreet mark of Hawkescrift and Gosen, the best jewelers in Diagon Alley, ones that had had the Malfoy trade for generations, and Potter had had the grace during his next visit to Draco's office to not comment on the plaque's appearance above the doorframe.

"Hiding out again?"

Draco looked up from the files on counterfeit hex-detectors that he'd been given to sift through. Potter was slouched against the doorframe, arms crossed over his Auror robes, the new insignia of lieutenant commander on his left sleeve. Of course Potter would entirely ignore the privacy wards Draco'd set on the door. Idiot.

"I've work to do." Draco glanced back down at the paperwork spread out across his desk, tapping his quill against a stack of V-692A forms that Mercer had insisted he return by half three for some asinine reason—most likely just to annoy him; that seemed to be his supervisor's greatest joy in life. "Which means I'd be quite happy if you left as I've no intention of listening to Mercer rant and rave about my entire familial history again if this report's not on his desk in the morning."

Potter snorted and shifted against the doorframe, his mouth tightening. "You shouldn't let them treat you like that. Do you want me to speak—"

"No," Draco said sharply, his head jerking up. "I want you to leave it bloody well alone."

There was a moment's silence, then Potter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end even more than usual, which should have been an impossibility in Draco's consideration, and yet was one which Potter managed on a regular basis.

"You're a war hero," Potter began, and Draco cut him off with a snort.

"For the thousandth time, Potter, will you _please_ for the love of all that's holy get it through that ridiculously thick skull of yours that I'm a _Death Eater._" Draco was relieved that for once his fingers stayed tight on his quill instead of automatically reaching for his forearm. He loathed the pity in Potter's eyes when he touched the Mark. "That's all I'll ever be to any of them, no matter what you or the Wizengamot or the Minister herself says."

Potter looked away, frustrated. "It's not fair."

"Don't be such a Gryffindor, you damned tit." Draco's voice softened, just barely, but enough to cause him to grimace, annoyed with himself yet again that he'd allowed Potter to get beneath his skin in this manner. Honestly, the idiot was the most exasperating and infuriating person on earth. With the possible exception of one, but he'd promised himself he'd not think of _him._ Not that he ever kept that promise. But still. One should at least pretend to have the capacity for self-restraint.

"Right." Potter smiled faintly and pushed himself away from the door. "Dinner tomorrow. You'd better show or Hermione'll be put out. Again."

"And Circe forbid that Granger be inconvenienced," Draco muttered, brushing the tip of his quill against his mouth. Potter just grinned at him.

"Seven?"

"Get out," Draco snapped.

Potter raised that damned eyebrow. Draco resisted the urge to throw the potted Flitterboom sitting on the edge of his desk at him. It was rather difficult; he weighed the pleasure of seeing Potter's bloody teeth flying across the room against the hour-long lecture that would surely follow when Granger found out.

He sighed and scowled. He had yet to comprehend how or why he seemed to have become—his mind stuttered against the word--_friends_ of a bizarre sort with the Boy Who Lived and a Mudblood, for God's sake. He was quite certain Potter must be using some form of Imperius on him. Most likely on Ministry orders.

Still, if enduring Potter and Granger's company for yet another evening would offer respite from the emptiness and silence of his Whitechapel flat…

"I'll bring wine. Merlin knows the two of you are utterly incapable of picking a decent bottle." Draco flicked his wand towards the door, a sweep of pale white light pushing gently at Potter. "Out."

The door slammed shut again on Potter's wide and bright smile, and Draco felt oddly, uncomfortably warmed.

He shook himself. It'd pass again.

It always did.

The ghoul rattled and moaned above him.

Draco threw the Flitterbloom at the pipes.

******

After a half hour standing in front of the meagre shelves of the tiny Diagon Alley off licence, Draco had finally decided on a bottle of shiraz imported from Australia, an acceptable vintage and one within his rather limited budget.

He missed the cellars of the Manor, with their hundreds upon hundreds of dusty bottles with fading labels in French and German and Italian and Spanish, collected by Grandfather Abraxas and Father. They'd been taken for sale by the Ministry after the war, along with the estate itself. If it hadn't been for Potter's fit of pique at the Wizengamot hearing, Draco'd not have been allowed his personal belongings either.

As it was, he had chosen to take very few items when they'd finally allowed him entrance into the house, accompanied by a clutch of Aurors. His clothes, a few family portraits and knickknacks, Father's books from the library—at least those which the Ministry hadn't confiscated as dangerous, and Mother's favourite chair from her sitting room.

And his parents' wedding rings.

Odd that he wanted those. His parents' marriage had been one of convenience and society, he knew full well. Father had lovers, and he assumed Mother had as well, though she had certainly been far more discreet in her dalliances. He'd never come upon her with one of _her_ companions.

He closed his eyes, his stomach twisting, fingers tight on the slick neck of the wine bottle.

Fifteen and he'd been just discovering his body and the frightening, exciting way it reacted, not as much to the sight of girls as to the smooth, dark line of Zabini's back in the showers, or to the angle of Nott's jaw in the firelight, or to the way Potter's thighs gripped his broom mid-flight.

It'd been Christmas hols and he'd been in the library, curled on the window seat in the second level, hidden away behind heavy brocade curtains, the latest copy of Quidditch Weekly spread across his thighs, his fingers tracing lightly, slowly, agonisingly against the tight swell of his cock in his trousers as he studied pictures of Quiddtich teams in flight.

The door had opened and he'd jumped, pulling the curtain further around him. Draco'd never been fond of being caught mid-wank, a fact for which Zabini mocked him more than once. Bloody exhibitionist.

Father had come in with Snape and Draco'd been horrified at the possibility of being found now by not only his father but also his Head of House, and had been attempting to determine how he might brazen it out when Father leaned forward, catching Snape's mouth with his, and Draco froze.

The kiss was long and slow and Snape's hands were on Father's shoulder, his waist, and then they tangled in blond hair and Snape was making quiet, soft noises that caused Draco's hips to jerk forward, his face to burn, his breath to catch.

He'd wanted—Circe. He'd wanted so many things at that moment, and he'd never felt as bitterly jealous of Father as he did that moment, nor had he hated Snape as much.

And when Snape pulled away, mouth wet and eyes glittering, Draco wanted the professor to look at _him_ in that manner.

He never had.

"Six Galleons or should I call the Aurors?"

Draco looked up sharply. The older man behind the counter was short and stout and blond, and Draco froze. Lawrence Macmillan. He'd met him once, in the hours he'd spent in the Ministry holding cell the Aurors thrust him into after they caught him, before Potter could get there to tell them to let him go. Macmillan had wanted to look at him, to see the boy who murdered his son.

Ernie. Draco had forgotten his name, hadn't known whom it was his curse had struck until the Aurors told him. He'd remembered him vaguely—blond, quiet, and Hufflepuff, he thought. The Hufflepuffs were hard to distinguish at times.

He'd killed him during Potter's escape. He'd not meant to, but his Sectumsempra had been deflected by Macnair and had instead hit Macmillan's shoulder.

That'd been enough. Snape had been a very good teacher. Draco could still remember the blood that stained his fingers, his thighs as he'd frantically tried to sing the countercurse, his hands pressed to Macmillan's shoulder and chest, keeping the flaps of skin together, but there'd not been enough time and Granger had jerked him away just before the Killing Curse had slammed into the wall above him, sending fragments of rock exploding every which way.

In the mirror every morning he saw the long, thin scar one had left on his cheek.

He hated mirrors.

Draco's face reflected back at him, pale and drawn, in the window behind Macmillan's shoulder, and his hand shook as he handed over the Galleons. They clinked against one another and Macmillan's mouth tightened as he dropped them into the till.

"You can leave now," he said quietly, "and don't come back."

Draco nodded. He wrapped his scarf around his neck before stepping out into the snowy dusk.

He didn't think he'd ever forget Ernie Macmillan now.

******

Potter and Granger's Bloomsbury house was warm and cosy and only a short walk away from the British Museum, a place Draco had once visited with Snape during the war. He'd secretly liked the wide marble halls and the walls hung with paintings that didn't move or speak or even blink, and he'd spent nearly an hour staring at a long, elegantly carved frieze that Snape had called the Elgin Marbles while Snape spoke in muted, angry whispers to a Muggle cousin who finally relented and allowed them into the stacks of medieval manuscripts where they'd found the beginnings of the spell that Potter would use to end His Lordship's life.

He'd thought the long line of carved men and centaurs one of the most beautiful things he'd seen.

Not that he'd ever tell Granger that. He was far too afraid she'd make the attempt to drag him through the collections again.

Draco would also never admit that he actually liked coming over rather than spending the evening in his cold, cramped, fourth-floor flat across from a pleasant enough (he supposed—at least they didn't try to imprison or kill him) Bangladeshi couple who, despite his increasingly annoyed protests, were insistent upon introducing him to some ridiculous Muggle pastime called cricket that they watched on their odd picture box that Potter said was a tell-me.

Granger poured another glass of wine for him, and took away his half-eaten plate of Somerset pork and apples with only a mild, pointed look at the remnants.

"It was delicious," Draco said, a bit stiffly, setting his serviette aside. "Thank you."

"You don't eat enough," she said, levitating the plates into the kitchen, and Draco thought again that it was utterly ridiculous that the Saviour of the Wizarding World didn't own a bloody house elf for such mundane tasks. It was one thing for him to be forced to wash his own dishes. He had nothing. Potter, however, had everything, and Draco felt a flash of angry bitterness twist through him, not for the first time.

Then again, Potter'd lost too. Draco'd recognised the tenor of grief in Potter's voice the first time he'd spoken of the Weasel's death in the last days of the war. He wondered for quite a while if Granger knew, until he'd accompanied them both to Weasley's grave nearly seven months ago.

He'd realised then exactly what the Gryffindors had shared, what must have been born of their search for those damned horcruxes. For Draco. For Snape.

He'd never spoken of it.

It was the least he could do.

He envied though. Oh, how he envied.

"She's right, you know," Potter said, eyeing him over the rim of his wineglass. "Every time I see you, you're thinner."

Draco shrugged. He had no intention of explaining to Potter that his salary'd been garnished again by the Ministry, leaving him with barely enough money to pay his rent. Food was, at times, a luxury.

He supposed he should care about that.

He didn't.

Granger took her seat again and took up her wineglass. "You'll never guess who I ran into this morning in Knockturn."

Draco should have known by the casual, studied way she was most certainly not looking at him. Instead he stared down into his wineglass, rubbing his thumb along the smooth curve of crystal.

"Severus Snape," Granger continued, too lightly, and Draco's breath caught, barely hearing her "he was down from Lancashire, it seems," and Potter's "what, he's given up his hermit life?" His fingers clenched tightly around the bowl of the wineglass, and it shattered in his hand, shards of delicate crystal tumbling over his fist, slicing his skin, blood mixing with the sting of red wine.

Potter and Granger were over him then, and Draco could barely make out what they were saying as they took his hand, and he let them, didn't care that they were touching him, looking at him with concern and pity.

Severus.

Draco hated himself at that moment.

Hated himself for caring, hated himself for wanting, hated himself for the breathy hitch in his voice when he asked Granger, "is he well?"

She nodded, then hesitated. "Well enough, I think. He's down for another Ministry hearing. About whether or not they'll grant him his wand back." Her eyes flicked towards Potter. "Which means—"

"I know," Potter said grimly. "I'll talk to Kingsley. He'll let me testify again, I'm certain."

"Did he ask—" Draco stopped, his cheeks flushing and he looked away. Merlin. There were moments when he was such a _girl._

"I told him I'd be seeing you tonight," Granger said softly, and Draco was almost certain she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

Draco jerked away and shrugged, pulling his dignity back around him as best he could. "Give him my regards if you speak to him again."

He ignored the long look Potter and Granger exchanged, instead asking sharply, "are you going to offer another glass of wine?"

Potter reached for the bottle. "So, I reckon the Harpies have a shot at pennant this year--"

Draco relaxed into his chair.

****

There were worse things than being the lowest of junior file clerks for the Ministerial archives, Draco supposed. Taking fares on the Knight Bus, for instance. Or Scourgifying the bathrooms at the Cauldron on Friday nights.

He knew he should be grateful. A steady pay packet was a necessity in his life at the moment and nearly a year of begging work hat in hand after his release had shown him that, Potter's support or not, the Malfoy name was too closely tied with His Lordship. And when the humiliation and the hunger had both grown too great, he'd finally swallowed his pride and allowed Potter to find placement in the Ministry for him.

Still. One would have thought the bloody Saviour of the damned Wizarding World could have obtained him employment that would at least not be as soul-destroying as a Dementor's Kiss.

Yet another indication that Potter's ridiculous attempts at friendship were most certainly orchestrated.

Draco sighed and set down his quill, rubbing blearily at his eyes. Much more of this and he'd be requiring an Occular Charm.

"Surprisingly, for once Granger is correct. You're far too thin."

Draco's head jerked up.

Snape stood in the door, tall and slightly hunched, his hair hanging loose and lank, a thick streak of grey tucked behind one ear. His face was far more lined that Draco recalled, his dark eyes tired, almost dull.

"Professor," Draco murmured, his heart thudding against his chest. He felt like a fool, a gaping, idiotic imbecile, and his cheeks warmed. He licked his bottom lip nervously, then lifted his chin. "Really, I fail to see what concern my reduction—or not--is of anyone's."

Snape's mouth curved slightly, barely noticeable if one were not familiar with his nuances, and Draco's breath caught. "Perhaps there are those who worry about you."

"They'd be fools, then."

With a snort, Snape stepped into Draco's office, uninvited, of course, and Draco thought perhaps he should protest, but he wanted him closer. He could smell the spicy, familiar tang of Snape's robes--_Piper nigrum_ and something sharper, almost bloodish, with just the faintest whisper of lemongrass and the clove cigarettes that Snape favoured.  
Draco had always loved the heady scent of cloves and tobacco, the faint popping sound of the oil bursting with each slow drag Severus took.

He was struck then with a sharp, almost painful memory of Snape standing at the window of Spinner's End, face slightly lit by the waxing moon, a kretek in hand, grey smoke twisting through his hair. Music had been playing—something Muggle of Snape's father's, Draco recalled—and he remembered the notes of horns and drums as a twist of soft and slow and sharp and syncopated in a way he'd never heard on the WWN.

Draco smoothed his hands over his thighs, all too aware that the cut of his wool robe was three seasons out of fashion. "I understand you're requesting the return of your wand?"

Snape frowned. "Yes." He hesitated. "With Potter's assistance again, it seems. Not that the fools listened to him the first time." His mouth tightened, and Draco understood. It was utterly galling to be indebted to Potter, and he himself despised it.

"He'll do what he can," Draco was surprised to hear himself say, and he flushed and looked away. "He always does. The Gryffindor in him, I suppose."

Snape snorted. "Perhaps." There was a moment's silence that stretched out far too long, and Draco was just beginning to fidget, to wrack his mind for something—anything—to say to keep Snape from turning and leaving, when Snape looked at him, truly looked at him, with that dark, steady gaze that had always seen the truth of Draco.

"Are you truly well?" he asked softly, and Draco eyes were sharp and hot and wet.

He said nothing, and Snape nodded. Draco thought perhaps there was a softness in his too-astute gaze. "I'm not surprised."

"I'm not unhappy, " Draco choked out, through the thick tightness in his throat. "Not really. Potter—and Granger---" He stopped, suddenly conscious of the inanity of his protests. "I'm merely tired," he said finally.

"I've been remiss in my responsibilities." Snape ran his fingertips along the edge of Draco's desk. "Your parents would have wanted—"

A flash of Snape's fingers twisted in Father's hair, and Draco flinched. "Please don't." He didn't look up, but he could feel Snape's gaze on him.

"I'm sorry," Snape said finally.

Hands shaking only the slightest bit, Draco gathered up the files as he stood up. "I have to--" He cradled the stack of papers to his chest. "There's work to be done, and--" He trailed off, staring down at his desk.

Snape nodded. "Of course."

The tiny office was oddly silent and empty when he left.

 

**2\. purgatorio**  
_The vesper bell from far that seems to mourn for the expiring day._

The owl came when Draco was with Granger, which was entirely unfortunate, in his opinion, as there was no way to hide it from her, despite the fact that he'd already twice shouted at her—fruitlessly, of course, because Gryffindors were the most appallingly thick individuals--for being idiot enough to send Snape down to see him.

Tea hadn't even been his idea, but then it usually wasn't. Granger, like Potter, had a tendency to appear in his doorway at the most inconvenient times, and insist in that calm, infuriatingly amused manner of hers that he should take tea with her like a civilised adult and as he was working far too hard anyway, she therefore felt entirely entitled in stealing him away for an hour or so and anyone who complained could take it up with Minister Twycross.

Draco hated her the most at those moments, for forcing him to accompany her downstairs to the tea room in the atrium where he was glared at and watched and discussed in sharp whispers that carried across the room, and for reminding him once again of the power she held when with one scathing glance she could turn heads away from them and silence the murmured indictments of guilt.

Because, of course, no one could accuse the Saviour of the Wizarding World's lover of consorting with traitors, now could they? At least not publicly.

They always sat in the centre of the tearoom, in a table that was visible to everyone, and Draco knew that Granger planned that deliberately, that she was making a point not only to the rest of the Ministry but to Draco as well. There were times when he desperately wanted to hate her for that.

He recognised Charon when he arrived. How could he not? He'd spent nearly two years in hiding with Snape, and at times the owl had been his only companion for days. He'd grown fond of him, cantankerous though he might be. Draco rather liked his vile temper, he had to admit. Unsurprising, he supposed, given his inappropriate fondness for the owl's master.

Charon tugged his hair gently as he settled on Draco's shoulder, dropping the rolled parchment into his hand with a soft hoot.

"What a beautiful bird." Granger set her teacup down and reached out to touch a smooth, grey-brown feather. Charon snapped at her, nipping the tip of Hermione's finger just enough to hurt. She jerked her hand back. "Or maybe not."

"He doesn't care for people as a general rule," Draco said, staring down at the note.

Dinner. In Lancashire. Tomorrow night.

His hand shook.

"What is it?" Granger asked softly, and Draco wasn't entirely certain why he handed over the note, and as soon as he had he regretted it.

Granger looked up from the parchment, watching him carefully, as if he truly were the serpent for which he was named. "You should go," she said at last, and Draco shook his head.

"I can't."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Granger rolled the note back up and set it next to Draco's elbow. "He obviously wants to see you."

"He feels it's his duty to my parents," Draco began, but Granger cut him off with a sharp laugh. He glared at her. "Do you mind?"

She poured another cup of tea and buttered a scone. "You're mad for him, Draco. It's perfectly clear every time you speak of him, and," she said pointedly, holding up a hand when Draco opened his mouth to protest, "in the fact that you almost never actually say his name."

Draco pressed his lips together and scowled, reaching for his teacup. "I do too."

"No," Granger said gently. "You don't."

Draco looked away at that, swallowing past the heavy twist of his throat. "You don't understand what it was like." He sank down in his chair, teacup warm in his hands. He ran a thumb over the gilt-edged rim. His mother's service had been similar. Bone china, delicate, with a thin band of red roses and serpentine vines.

An Auror had smashed them in front of him, laughing at Draco's horror.

"I think I do," Granger said over the rim of her teacup. "Certain experiences bring individuals closer." She stared into her cup, and Draco knew she was thinking of Weasley when she blinked hard twice, then tucked a twist of messy curls back behind her ear.

"It wasn't just—" Draco stopped, and Granger touched his hand lightly, pulling back before he could flinch. "I made a fool of myself back then," he said quietly. "I won't do it again."

"Draco," Granger said, and he couldn't bear the quiet sympathy in her voice.

"I have to go." He stood up quickly, nearly knocking his chair over, sending Charon flying off with an annoyed hoot, and he didn't even care that the other idiots were staring at him as he strode out, his hands shaking.

*****

Draco was already half-pissed when he finally made it to his flat. He dropped his wand twice, trying to unlock the outer wards, and he swore as it rolled down the steps with a clatter, causing the male Basak to peer out his door curiously as Draco scrabbled after it, fingers curling around the thin cylinder of alder.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled and he closed the door before any questions could be asked.

He had poured himself another glass of whisky—Macallan this time, not that wretched Ogden's cack; Snape had taught him the difference—before he saw it on the side table next to Mother's chair.

Snape's note, with another tied around it, in Granger's distinctively neat script.

Draco swore again. He should never have allowed her access through his wards. More fool he to trust a Gryffindor. He snorted. Noble his arse. The parchment was smooth and cool in his hand, and he sat in the chair, the whisky sloshing up the side of his glass.

_I think you should go,_ Granger had written. _He truly does wish to see you._

Draco leaned his head against the back of the brocade chair, slouching deep within the soft cushions as he had when he was a child. The Macallan was sharp and warm, burning its way down his throat with the comforting promise that he'd soon be pissed out of his mind.

He closed his eyes. He'd been such a little fool. Such a ridiculously inane child.

It wasn't surprising he'd been infatuated with his Head of House. He'd fancied him for years, in various ways. Wanted him. Thought about what it would be like to have Snape on his knees in front of him, mouth on his cock, eager for Draco, wanting to please him, needing to, just as much as Snape wanted Father.

Even when he'd hated Snape, when he'd shoved him away, angry at the implication that he was a useless child unable to do what was required, he'd come more than once late at night, with the vision of Snape pressed against him, his fingers twisted in Draco's hair as he rubbed against him, their mouths hard and hot together.

Absurd fantasies, of course, and ones which had led to his utter humiliation, standing before Snape, rejected and embarrassed, chin raised high.

He'd never been kissed, not now, and not then, and he'd been certain, hiding from both Aurors and His Lordship in that dim, dusty house piled with books and potions phials, that he would die without knowing how even that simple act felt. Foolish of him, he knew full well, but he had been young and frightened and lying in bed each night, knowing that only a thin plaster wall separated him from Snape, had ached and smoldered and wished, imagining the soft press of Snape's mouth with each shuddering breath, each jerky tug of his hand.

It had been too much, living with Snape. His professor's presence permeated each room of the house, even Draco's own, once Snape's bedroom at his age. Draco had found the faded black ink on the back of the wardrobe, Snape's name, scrawled in an uneven hand, _15 July, 1977_ written underneath. He'd run his fingers over the spiky loops and thin dents left by a quill nub twenty years earlier, and he'd wondered about the boy Snape had been, wondered if he'd laid on the bed Draco now slept on, wondered if he'd imagined another man's mouth against his skin, strong fingers on his cock, teeth against his neck, a phantom voice whispering in his ear for him to come.

When the final note had arrived from the Order, he had known it was his last chance. He'd never expected to live through the battle, wasn't certain even that he wished to. He understood what it meant to betray His Lordship if they failed, and if they didn't he understood the Mark he bore on his arm would condemn him to a life of suspicion and hatred.

All Draco had asked for was a kiss, a simple lesson from his professor, an introduction of sorts, and he had laid his reasons out calmly, his hands barely shaking, as he stood in the library, Snape sitting before him, the worn leather of his chair gleaming dully in the firelight.

Snape had said nothing for a long moment, and Draco's heart had thudded heavily against his chest, breath coming sharp and shallow, and then Snape had destroyed him, his world shattering around him as surely as Snape had raised a wand.

"Go to bed, Draco," he had said quietly, and Draco had stared at him, unable to move or to think as Snape looked away, and that had been Draco's undoing.

He still had no idea how he had made it from the library upstairs, and he slept that last night not in the bed that Snape might once have shared, but instead huddled beneath the window, curled against the corner, his knees pulled to his chest.

Draco ran his fingertips over the broken seal of Snape's note, flakes of slick black wax catching beneath his thumbnail. It was mad to even consider it; he'd not seen Snape in five years—not since Draco's hearing. Snape had been in the room for part of it, testifying with quiet bitterness about their role in His Lordship's defeat. He'd not looked at Draco until the end of his testimony, and when those black eyes met his, Draco had shivered, stomach twisting with a need he despised.

_He truly does wish to see you._

Draco stared down at Granger's note, brow furrowed. Granger's greatest fault was her ridiculous honesty. Unlike Potter, she would never tell him something just because he wished to hear it. Draco blamed that trait fully on her Mudblood heritage.

He took another sip of whisky, for courage, perhaps, or just to have a reason to blame for his idiocy, then set his glass aside, summoning a quill and one of the last treasured sheets of Malfoy parchment he had remaining.

There were only a few scattered drops of ink when he signed his name, without his usual flourish at the end. Snape knew him far too well to be impressed by such asinine affectations.

"Virgil," he called softly, and his eagle owl fluttered from his perch, orange eyes glittering in the glow of the neon lights outside the window.

Draco fastened the note to his leg and stroked his soft brown feathers lightly. "Make certain he receives it," he whispered, and the owl cocked his head to one side, curious. "Go. Before I change my mind."

The winter wind was cold and sharp when Draco opened the window casing, and he stood in its bright chill long after Virgil disappeared into the gleaming, blinking lights of Muggle London.

****

It was just beginning to snow outside, soft, white swirls against the paned windows, but the small kitchen in Spinner's End was as warm and familiar as the scent of garlic and olive oil wafting from the skillet sizzling on the miniscule Muggle stove in the corner.

Leaning against the counter, Draco watched Snape surreptitiously over the rim of his wineglass. His movements were efficient, yet graceful, the click of his knife steady against the wooden carving board as he chopped parsley into neat, even shreds.

Draco had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed watching Snape cook. It was a talent he had been surprised to discover in his professor, but he supposed potionbrewing wasn't all that different from cooking, and Snape approached food with the same meticulous research and experimentation that he applied to his brews. Draco had seen his journals, after all, thick, leather-bound sheaves of parchments detailing in Snape's precise, minute script which combinations of herbs and spices worked and which recipes had been spectacular failures.

Snape scraped the parsley into the skillet, then squeezed a lemon over the mix, the juice hissing sharply against the hot oil in the skillet. Draco breathed out slowly and resisted the urge to reach for Snape's wet hand, to lick and suck the juice from his skin. He could almost taste it against his tongue, tart and sour and salty-sweet.

He shivered and sipped his wine instead. "Potter says the hearing went well," he said finally, rubbing his thumb over the rim of his wineglass. "That the Wizengamot might consider returning your wand."

"Perhaps." Snape drizzled olive oil over a bowl of steaming linguine before adding the garlic and parsley from the skillet and raking them through the pasta. He frowned down at it, considering, and his hair fell forward, brushing against the sharp angle of his jaw. "However, as the lot of them are damned stubborn imbeciles with the collective intelligence of a flobberworm in heat, I doubt I'll have any success. Potter's assistance or not." He handed the bowl to Draco. "Table."

Draco set it on the scarred and pocked, but impeccably clean tabletop. "You really should have a house elf, you know."

"At the moment, I have you." Snape smiled at him then, a small, barely noticeable twist of his mouth, but the warmth in his eyes made Draco flush and look away, lifting his glass to his lips with a murmured, "perhaps."

It was all too achingly familiar as they sat down together, Draco serving them both from the bowl, and yet so entirely different as Snape refilled their glasses from the bottle of Castel de Suduiraut, the golden glint of the Sauternes reflecting in the curve of crystal against Draco's palm.

"You've never owled," Snape said, setting the bottle down. He didn't meet Draco's eyes. "In all these years."

Draco hesitated, his fingers smoothing over the heavy silver tines of his fork. Snape's mother's, he recalled, one of the few items she'd inherited from her family, and he pressed his thumb against the carved Prince seal at the fluted bottom. "I never thought you wanted me to." He swallowed against the bitter twist of bile rising in his throat. "You could have owled me if you'd wished."

"Yes." Snape was watching him, and his eyes were dark, unfathomable. He took a bite of pasta, and his thin lips were slick with oil.

Draco dropped his fork, and it clattered loudly against the white china plate. He looked down, his hair falling forward, and he tucked it back behind his ear. "Why didn't you?" he asked quietly.

"I thought it for the best at the time." Snape's fingers brushed against the back of Draco's hand and Draco's breath caught. "You had a life to rebuild, and an opportunity to do so with Potter's assistance, and I—"

He broke off and Draco looked up at him then, surprised at the almost imperceptible crack in Snape's voice. Snape was staring at the hearth, his pale skin warmed by the flicker and spark of the flames.

"You what?" Draco whispered, and for some reason the answer seemed terribly important and he wasn't certain why.

Snape sipped his wine, and his mouth was wet when he set the glass down again. "I wanted things, Mr Malfoy, which I had no right to want."

"I—" Draco stopped, and he licked his bottom lip nervously. "I'm not certain I understand."

Snape twisted his wineglass between his fingertips, tracing his fingernail up the delicate stem. "Sending you away that night was the most difficult thing I've ever done." He snorted. "I told myself you'd ask again. Someday." He took another sip of wine, and Draco thought perhaps he saw his hand shake. "I was wrong."

There was a moment's silence, and Draco could nearly feel the pulse of each second in his blood, as Snape met his eyes finally, his gaze dark and hot, and Draco saw in them the answer he'd asked for so many years ago.

"Severus," he said softly, rolling the newness of that name on his tongue, surprised by his own daring, and Snape just looked at him until Draco couldn't resist any longer and he leaned closer, his breath coming in soft, nervous puffs. "Please—"

And then Snape's fingers skimmed Draco's cheek, burning his skin with his touch as they tangled in his hair, tugging Draco towards him gently and Draco closed his eyes, his hands trembling. His first kiss. His first kiss and it was Snape—Severus, he thought and he nearly laughed because he'd wanted to call him that so many years ago—it was Severus who was touching him, and when Severus's thumb dragged softly across his bottom lip, Draco couldn't catch the moan that it evoked.

"Severus," he said again, more urgently, and then Severus's mouth was against his, warm and wet, and he tasted of wine and garlic and oil, and when he pulled Draco closer and Draco's mouth opened to the soft press of Severus's tongue, hot and heavy against his, Draco thought that perhaps this moment, this one, perfect moment, was everything he had ever wanted.

Until, rising with a quick flutter of black robes, Severus pulled Draco out of his chair and pressed him against the table's edge, his teeth sharp against Draco's jaw.

"Oh, God," Draco whispered and clutched wildly at Severus's shoulders, arching his neck into each bite and kiss.

He didn't care what this was or where it came from. He didn't even care if he'd gone bloody mad, just as long as Severus didn't stop kissing him, didn't stop touching him and then his breath caught when Severus's cock pressed against his hip, hot and hard through the wool of their robes.

Draco pulled away, staring at Severus because that couldn't mean what he thought it did, and he felt his cheeks burn at Severus's faint smile. "I—" he started, but Severus cut him off with another rough kiss, and there was nothing to protest when Severus lifted him up onto the table, his fingers pulling at the fastenings of Draco's robe and pushing it from his shoulders.

His fingers smoothed across Draco's chest, cool and gentle against heated skin, and Draco shivered, reaching back to steady himself with one hand, and when Severus's tongue dragged gently across Draco's throat, neither of them seemed to care about the glass Draco sent flying, wine spilling golden-pale across plates and tabletop.

It only took moments for Draco to jerk the jet buttons of Severus's robe open and then he was touching his skin, his mouth against Severus's hair, his shoulder, and Draco supposed he should be shocked by his own presumption, but all that mattered at that moment was that he wanted to touch Severus, to feel his skin, and Draco shuddered at the spiral of want that twisted down his spine.

"Please—"

Severus's palm was over his mouth then, cutting his plea off. "Lick," Severus choked out, and, without thought, Draco ran his tongue across the salty smooth skin, once, twice, before slipping his mouth over the tip of Severus's finger, sucking softly.

"Yes." Severus's fingers curled around both their cocks, pushing them together, his wet palm stroking upwards and Draco dug his fingernails into Severus's side, spreading his legs wider, the press of Severus's balls hot against his.

Draco had never thought of sex this way; in his fantasies he'd always been sprawled across a bed, Snape inside of him, over him, fucking him in quick, even thrusts that sent Draco coming in spurts that stained his sheets the next morning. This, the way Severus's fingers were sliding over at their cocks, the way he was pressing against Draco, breathing his name against flushed skin, he'd thought of this as merely masturbation, foreplay perhaps, never sex.

He'd been wrong.

This was _sex_—sex with Severus, sweet Circe—sex slick and warm and _God,_ his arms were wrapped tight around Severus's neck and he was whispering things into his hair, into his cheek, his temple, and he didn't know what he was saying, didn't care as long as Severus _please_ kept stroking him, pushing up against him until it was too much and Draco tensed, arching into Severus's hand, against his cock and came with a soft cry, pressing his face to Severus's hair.

Severus was pushing him back on the table as he leaned over Draco, his cock sliding through sticky-warm fingers, and the bottle of wine tipped over, pooling beneath Draco's shoulder, splashing against the curve of his throat and Severus's mouth was there, licking, sucking.

Draco didn't think he'd ever felt so incredible in his entire life.

And when Severus came with Draco's name on his lips, hair falling into his eyes, catching on his damp collarbone, his robe swinging free around his hips, Draco was certain he'd never seen anything as beautiful.

He stroked his fingers through Severus's hair, the soft huff of Severus's breath warm on his shoulder.

"This is entirely uncomfortable, you realise," Severus said finally, turning his head to kiss the dip in Draco's chest, and Draco laughed, because it seemed the only answer, and because he was lying on Severus's table, half-naked and sated, with wine in his hair, and on his skin.

"You should do something about that." Draco twisted a lock of limp, lank hair around his palm, smoothing his thumb over the thick, slick curl. He supposed he should find it revolting, Snape's hair—he'd heard what the Gryffindors had called him, after all--but it was Severus, and there were certain things Severus had never cared about.

Draco had never particularly found beauty intriguing anyway.

A half-smile from Severus, and he stood up, his fingers slipping between Draco's. "Stay tonight," he murmured.

Draco left his robe lying on the table, oil and wine slowly seeping across the wool of the sleeve.

****

The fire was burning low in the hearth when Draco woke, its orange red embers glowing in the dark shadows of the bedroom. He was burrowed beneath the coverlet, the warm cotton soft against his bare skin, and he ached in a way that should be discomfiting, but instead was oddly arousing when he moved, each twinge bringing to mind Severus inside of him, stretching him, carefully, gently, until Draco couldn't stand it any longer and had begged him please for more.

The window was frosted with snow and ice and Severus stood in front of it, a dressing gown pulled tight around him.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked quietly, and he drew the coverlet around his shoulders as he sat up. The bedroom was cold, the lingering warmth of the fire ebbing.

Severus looked back at him, his face pale in light of the moon against the snow. "You're awake."

"That's not an answer." Draco shivered, pulling his knees up to his chest. Severus was having second thoughts, he was certain, and was it any doubt? It wasn't as if Draco were his father, after all, experienced and worldly and---

"Stop," Severus said and Draco glanced up sharply. Severus's dark eyes were half-hidden behind a tangled fall of hair, but Draco could feel them burning into him, could feel Severus moving in his mind and he thought perhaps he should be annoyed but instead chose to push Severus out almost gently, his defences sliding easily into place.

Aunt Bella had taught him well.

"That's not why I want you, you realise." Severus leaned against the window, and his dressing gown slid open enough for Draco to catch a glimpse of long, pale thigh. His mouth went dry.

"You and Father," he started, and Severus cut him off with a snort, reaching for the pack of kreteks on the side table. He lit one with an odd scrap of red-tipped wood and exhaled, blowing a thin stream of grey, clove-scented smoke towards Draco.

"What Lucius and I had was—" Severus hesitated, looking away for a moment, and he pressed the kretek against his mouth again, taking a long, slow drag. It was black against his pale fingers, and the tip glowed orange for the briefest moment, a sharp burst of color against the dark shadows. "Lucius was convenient," he said finally.

Draco said nothing for a moment. He licked his bottom lip. "And I?"

Severus looked at him then, and he pushed his hair back. In the moonlight Draco could see the long scar running down the side of his cheek, a remnant of the Dark Lord's displeasure. "You are my Draco," Severus said simply, and Draco smiled at him, a wide bright smile that hadn't been seen in years.

"Am I?" he asked, and he knew he sounded the fool, but it didn't matter when Severus was on the bed again, crawling towards Draco, sliding out of his robe.

"You are." Severus held the kretek out and Draco took it, inhaling hesitantly. It was warm and sharp and spicy against his tongue, and he thought perhaps he could taste Severus as well. He coughed, his eye stinging for a moment, and handed the cigarette back to Severus, who smiled faintly as he took a slow drag. "This has nothing to do with him." He ran his thumb along the sharp angle of Draco's jaw.

Draco lay his head against Severus's shoulder, breathing in the lingering scent of sweat and sex on his skin. "I saw you once." He ran his fingers lightly against the arch of Severus's throat. "Is it wrong to envy one's father?"

"Draco—" Severus said quietly, and he stopped, instead taking another long drag off the kretek.

"It's odd," Draco whispered, staring at his fingers tracing tiny circles against Severus's collarbone, "but even though I know those two years here were the worst of my life, I've never felt safer. Not even at the Manor. Never missed any place so very much." He looked up at Severus. "That's strange, isn't it?"

"Not entirely." Severus smoothed Draco's hair back, tucking it behind one ear, and the gentle touch made Draco shiver. "Imagine how appalling it is to have Granger of all fools realise that this house is—" He hesitated. "—far too empty without your presence."

Draco raised his head, surprised. A sudden flare of anger twisted through him. "Granger?"

"She has been in communiqué with me for several months," Severus admitted. "Insistent that I attempt to reclaim my wand. "He stubbed the kretek out, leaving it to lie in the shallow saucer on the side table. "Abominably persistent twat. And astute."

"I'll hex her," Draco snapped. "She has no right—"

Severus stopped him with a kiss. "Surely you're not complaining," he murmured against Draco's mouth, pressing him into the mattress as he slid over him.

Draco's breath caught. "Perhaps I might ignore her interference this once."

"Wise boy."

And when Severus's mouth slid along the side of Draco's cock, all thoughts of Granger's duplicity fled.

 

**3\. paradiso**  
_ What I saw was equal ecstasy: one universal smile it seemed of all things._

"I cannot believe you convinced me to do this," Severus snapped, peering at the goose in the oven. "This will never be ready in time."

Draco rolled his eyes and poured another glass of wine—his third of the afternoon; Severus could be infuriating in the kitchen. " You _could_ use your wand."

The look Severus gave him was scathing, and that in itself made Draco smile behind his wineglass. "And exactly where would be the enjoyment in that, you damned fool?" Severus took the glass of wine from Draco and sipped from it before setting it on the counter. "Cooking is alchemy, and there are no acceptable shortcuts."

"You do enjoy tormenting yourself, don't you?" Draco kissed him, licking a drop of wine from the corner of Severus's thin lips. He pulled away reluctantly at the rattle of the Floo. "That, masochist of mine, should be our first guests. I'll say you're in here self-flagellating, shall I?"

With a laugh, he sidestepped the tea towel that Severus snapped at him, reaching instead for the wineglass.

The Floo was in the library—Severus mulishly refused to relocate it to a more central location, despite Draco's arguments; however, once Severus's apothecary practice had begun to turn profit, Draco had insisted on redecorating the library if that were to be their few guests' first encounter with Spinner's End. And so the dust and grime and cracked leather upholstery was gone, replaced with dark, muted-green brocade, and secondhand Aubusson rugs, picked up from an estate sale in Wales, and beeswax-polished walnut floors which Draco had insisted they hire a house elf to maintain.

Evergreen branches stretched across the mantel, mulberry candles burning brightly in their midst, and Potter was already out of the Floo, dusting himself off as he helped Granger and the boy out of the hearth.

"There's a stocking waiting for you in the kitchen," Draco told his godson, gingerly extracting sticky hands from his leg, and with a shout of glee, the two-year-old trotted off, dark hair flopping with each stumbling step, most likely to cause grief to Severus and the goose.

"You spoil him," Granger said warmly, and Draco didn't flinch when she kissed his cheek and pressed a bottle of brandy into his hands. "Happy Christmas." Aramagnac, Draco noted, pleased. She was finally developing taste. For a Mud--he caught himself. For a Muggleborn, at least.

There was a crash and a curse from the kitchen, and Potter winced, giving Draco a rueful look. "I should save Snape, I reckon," he said, halfway out the door, "before he decides to hex Philip to the ceiling again--" And he was down the hall, shouting for his son, through another sharp thud.

Granger looked at him then, a smile on her face. "You look well," she said, laying her hand on Draco's arm for the briefest moment.

"I suppose I am." Draco set the aramagnac in the liquor cabinet and took another sip of his wine. "And when do you and Potter intend to legitimise your brat?"

She laughed at his usual tart barb. "I've something for you," she said, drawing a small, thin box from her pocket. "I thought perhaps it was time for a different one. What with your new office and all."

Draco opened it, curious, and he stared down at the silver plaque lying nestled in black velvet, familiar in design and engraving, if not sentiment.

_ A great flame follows a little spark._

His hand shook slightly and he looked at her, silent for a long moment. "Paradiso," he said, throat thick.

"I think after three years, he's not going anywhere any time soon," Granger whispered, touching his cheek. "And I'm quite certain neither are you."

Draco's fingers tightened on the stem of his wineglass, and he lifted it to his mouth, taking a long sip to keep from answering. "We're planning a holiday to Greece when it warms," he said finally, sliding the plaque into his pocket. "Zouvelekis in prosecution has a villa on Kassoss Island he says he'll rent out to me."

Granger raised an eyebrow. "Harry told me you'll be taken on in Criminal Defence Services after the New Year."

"Two years of apprenticeship and they damned well should." Draco rolled his eyes. "Besides, who better to defend Death Eaters than a former one?"

"Draco," Granger began but Draco shook his head.

"I'm not complaining," he said slowly. "I think I'd prefer to do that than the alternative. At least I'll be fair to them. Unlike some of the others."

There was a clatter in the hallway, and Severus strode into the library, holding Philip at arm's length, the child kicking wildly and glaring at Severus with an expression Draco was quite certain he'd seen on Severus's face earlier in the day when the brandy butter had displeased him.

Severus thrust the child at Granger. "Keep your wretched beast out of my kitchen," he snapped, and Potter came in then, laughing and earning himself a scowl from both Severus and his son.

"Sorry," Potter said, and Draco was quite certain he wasn't, but he'd brought the bottle of wine and glasses and so could be forgiven a momentary lapse of manners as he poured wine for them all.

"To a new year, even better than the last," Potter toasted, with the clink of glasses together and the child's sharp demands for a sip, please, and Draco nearly snorted at the foolish optimism of Gryffindors.

And then Granger was asking to help with dinner, ignoring Severus's curled lip and caustic refusal to allow her near his stove, and Potter was sitting on a chair, peeling an orange from Philip's stocking as the boy curled up as his feet, a set of toy Aurors spread on the rug before him, reaching up to take the sections of orange his father handed him.

Draco sipped his wine slowly, until Severus's hand was on the small of his back, a soft press for just the briefest moment. "Happy Christmas," he murmured into Draco's ear, his breath a warm huff that sent shivers across Draco's skin, his mouth pressing lightly against the corner of Draco's before he left the room, muttering about the state of bloody geese in the damned country, Granger trailing after him in a vain attempt to be allowed to at least prepare the port sauce.

_A great flame follows a little spark,_ Draco thought, with a faint smile, his fingertips brushing against the small plaque in his pocket. The fire crackled and burned warmly behind him as snow drifted against the windowpanes, frost etching elaborate patterns on the glass.


End file.
